


Things Are Not Always As They Seem

by scifigrl47



Series: Phil Coulson's Case Files of the Toasterverse [18]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Backstory of OCs, F/M, OC Fest 2016, and a bit of hurt and comfort, quick adventure time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Done for the OC Celebration!  So OCs only here!</p><p>Harris isn't sure how he ended up with this being his life, but he's doing his best with the hand he's been dealt.  That usually results in a trip to SHIELD medical, but he's getting used to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Are Not Always As They Seem

“Ever get the idea that you maybe, if you'd made different choices in life, you wouldn't be here today?”

Special Agent Andi Newton didn't even glance in Harris' direction. “By 'wouldn't be here today,' do you mean that you'd be dead?” she asked.

Something screamed from an office window, high and sharp and inhuman, and Harris flinched. “I meant 'not in New York City, at a time when New York City seems determined to BE ON FIRE.'” He ducked his head, hands pressed to his ears, as Andi pushed herself up, taking a quick burst of shots over their makeshift barrier. “Which, you know, could well result in death, at this point, it seems pretty stupid to count out the potential for death, what with the fire.”

“There IS a lot of fire,” Andi agreed, a grin crossing her face. “Could be worse, though.” 

“I'd ask how, but every time I ask a SHIELD agent how it could be worse, they tell me,” Harris said, glum about it. He kept a wary eye on the other end of the street, where a red and gold streak kept dipping between the buildings. As far as he was concerned, Iron Man was a bad omen of things to come. “And you guys have the worst stories. Absolutely the worst.”

“You should see us at a bachelorette party,” Andi said. She braced her arm on the crumbled wall, her stance rock solid despite the splatter blood on her cheek and neck. “Or a baptism.” She took one more shot, then crouched back down, leaning back against the wall to rest her injured leg.

Harris nodded, and handed her a fresh clip of ammo. “Okay, seriously, I'd like to be reassigned now.”

“Does it occur to you that maybe you aren't cut out for this line of work, kid?” Andi asked, reloading her sidearm with a quick, practiced motion. 

“It occurs to me pretty much constantly,” Harris said. “I point it out to anyone who'll listen just as often.”

“So, what are you doing huddling behind the remains of a crash barrier handing me ammo?” she asked.

“I'm pretty weak willed,” he said. “Also, Agent Coulson's really convincing.”

She snorted. “I woulda said threatening, but sure, we can go with convincing. Still-”

There was a shriek of sound, high and sharp and loud, so close that Harris' heart seized in his chest, and as one, they both ducked. “Incoming,” Harris said from between gritted teeth, and he was pretty sure he heard Williams laughing as something nearby exploded with enough force to knock them both back. Andi, braced against the wall, rocked forward and back, and Harris hit the ground ass first.

His ears ringing, his head spinning, Harris shoved himself back upright. Above him, the sky was streaked with flickering trails of smoke. He sucked in a breath, and the air tasted like burning ozone. “Please. Tell me we're winning.”

“We're winning.”

Harris' head came up as a man came ducking around the corner of a building, his sidearm up and ready. He was tall, tall enough to attract attention, and a burst of fire came from above them. Andi twisted around, firing back, but before she could get off a second shot, the newcomer was sliding into place beside them behind cover. Harris shifted to the side, giving him some more room.

His black hair was dusted in stone dust, and his broad shoulders strained the limits of his blue SHIELD jumpsuit. His name plate, still affixed on his left breast, read Kalber, and a massive red bag was thrown over his shoulder, marked with the white cross that marked it as medical supplies. He nodded at Andi. “Agent Newton. You okay?”

“Hey, José.” She crouched down, one leg stretched out in front of her. “Landed on my knee wrong,” she said, tapping her knuckles against her thigh. “Not broken, but it's not happy with me right now. You?”

“Just fine.” He gave Harris a curious glance. “Who're you?”

Harris gave him a little wave. “Harris MacIntyre. Computer forensics division. Level two.”

“The guy who empties his trash has a higher clearance than him,” Andi said, a faint smile on her face.

“Well, that's fair,” Harris said. “He's been with the organization longer and he's got access to a lot more sensitive material.”

Andi laughed, but Kalber just stared at Harris. “If you're not a field agent, what are you doing out here?”

“I was part of the team that swept the streets,” Harris said. It seemed like a lifetime ago, by this point. “By the time we got the civilians out, there-”

“The idiot went back to double check on an office and got caught after we sealed the streets,” Andi said.

Harris shrugged. “The office was empty,” he said. “So... At least it was for nothing.”

Kalber stared at him. Harris tried to look non-threatening. It must've been effective, because Kalber shook his head and looked at Andi. “Didn't know you were out here.”

“We haven't had a comm uplink for at least the last hour,” she said. She glanced over their barricade, checking the street. “What's happening?”

“Yeah, they managed to fry a few of our systems.” Kalber's hands flexed on the grip of his sidearm. “We're running down the clock,” he said to her. “Limited resistance at this point, the Avengers took out the main force on the invasion ship, we've got a handful of attack waves taking out the last of forces. But we're stretched thin, and we got a report of a couple of casualties trapped at the far end of this block. Communication was a mess, but they've got a medic, just no supplies.” 

“Wondered what you were doing with a medic bag,” Andi said. She shifted, her face twisting as she forced her knee into place under her. “Where?”

“That storefront on the corner,” Harris said. She glanced at him, and he pushed himself up to point. “See? The coffee shop. It's on the corner, so I don't think they entered from out side of the block, but I keep seeing reflections of movement in the windows.” He leaned over, his eyes narrowed. “How do they still have windows?”

“Even alien invaders respect coffee?” Kalber asked. But he shifted towards the street again, his head up, sweeping the windows above them. “Didn't expect to still have active shooters, or I would've brought a squad.” His face tightened, his heavy eyebrows dipping down over his dark eyes. “Fuck. This is not good.”

“Do we have any idea how bad the injuries are?” Andi asked, but Kalber was already shaking his head. She sucked in a breath. “Okay, what's the call?”

“Oh, I get to make the call?” he asked, his face relaxing enough to smile, just a little.

“I prefer you make the call if it's going to end up with you being dead.”

Harris sucked in a breath. “Right,” he said. “Give me the bag.”

Andi's head twitched in his direction, her eyes narrowing. “Sit still, keep your head down, MacIntyre. This'll be over soon, and then we can-”

Harris checked the laces on his boots, tightening them with quick tugs. “And by then, it may be too late for whoever's waiting for that bag.”

Kalber crouched down next to him. “What's the plan?” he asked. 

“Give me the bag, I'll make the run. Street's mostly clear by now, we've got Iron Man and Thor in play up above us-”

“We've still got shooters,” Andi said. “At least two.”

“Which is why it has to be me running, and not you,” Harris said. “You can provide me with some cover. I'm a crap shot, and a small target.” He forced a smile, thin and tight, but a smile none the less. Andi and Kalber exchanged a glance, and Harris let them consider it for a second. Then he held out a hand. “Give me the bag.”

Kalber paused, his hand tightening on the strap of the medic bag, his eyes locked with Harris'. “You don't have to do this.”

Harris sucked in a breath, and the air tasted like dust and blood, like smoke and superheated metal. “Yeah, I do. Part of the job description.” His eyebrows arched. “Right?”

The strap of the bag hit his hand, and he wrapped his fingers around it. “Right,” Kalber said. “Call it when you're ready.”

It was heavier than he'd thought it would be. Harris dragged the strap over his head and then tightened it up until the bag was tight against his side, tucked snug near the small of his back. “You with us?” he asked Andi.

She shook her head. “You're an idiot. Try not to get shot.”

“Okay, fine, help me out by that by not, you know, shooting me.” Harris set his hands on the barrier, and they were shaking. He pressed his palms against the rough edges of the stone, forcing them still. “On three, I'm going over.” Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw them take up positions on either side of him, weapons up and ready, their faces calm and alert. Harris sucked in a breath. And another.

He tasted bile in the back of his throat, and ignored it. “One. Two.” His eyes flicked shut for a second, and open again. “Three.”

In one smooth, practiced movement, he pushed himself up and over, running before his feet were even on the ground. His boots scraped across the cracked concrete, sliding sideways before he managed to get purchase, before he managed to force himself forward. And then he was running.

The bag was heavier than he'd expected, a burden that he had to adjust for, that he had to shift with each step. It weighed him down, far more than he'd expected it to, and he wondered, in some detached part of his mind, how much of that was purely psychological. He ran, letting the burden push him forward instead of dragging him down. He just ran.

There was a burst of fire from somewhere, and he cut hard to the side, running in a zigzag pattern that would make him a harder target to hit, adjusting his speed every couple of steps. He ducked around cars, crashed and still smoking, hopping over a massive gash in the middle of the street, a ditch carved by some terrifying alien weapon that he hoped wasn't still in play. 

There was glass on the street, tangled fragments of metal and shards of concrete and brick scattered everywhere. Sometimes, he could see where they came from. Sometimes, those ruined bits were all that remained of the source. A car torn apart by an explosion. A lamp post shattered by an impact. He stepped over the remains of a briefcase, and there, wedged against the curb, a high heeled shoe with a broken heel.

He took it all in, snapshots his brain decided to focus on to keep him from seeing the whole, to keep him from understanding what he was doing. He ran, and someone was shooting behind him. He didn't look back.

It wouldn't help.

Half a block away, and less, and suddenly, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. His head came around, even as he kept running, kept moving.

The man wandered into the street, his suit torn and his hair a mess. He had a glazed, confused look on his face, and in one hand, he was clutching an empty paper coffee cup. Coffee was spilled down the side of one leg, splashed across one polished shoe. He stumbled forward, heading straight for Harris.

Cursing, Harris looked up, watching for the flash of sunlight on metal, for any sign of the shooter that was still there. That was still waiting for him to slow down. “Run!” he yelled. “Run, it's not safe, it's not-”

Except the coffee shop was where he was running to, and this man had to be running from it. Except the shooter hadn't shot in the last few minutes. Except the inside of the man's coffee cup was clean and white, gleaming and bright and unused.

Harris swept the bag off of his bag and swung it around, the weight twisting his feet on the debris covered street. Time slowed down, seemed to come to a stop, and for an instant, he saw the red bag hanging in midair, and then it was slamming into the side of the man's face.

An instant before it did, in the shadow of the bag, Harris saw the man's face twist, saw his skin go green, saw the very shape of the man's skull change in front of him.

Then the bag connected, and the thing that had been a traumatized Manhattan businessman a moment before went down. Something that looked like a gun hit the pavement and bounced. Harris made a grab for it, missed, and settled for kicking it as hard as he could towards the other side of the street. 

And ran for the relative safety of the coffee shop. He hit the door with his shoulder, choking out his SHIELD id number even as he did. Hands came up, grabbing hold of his arms, his clothes, anything they could reach, and dragged him in.

Three SHIELD agents hustled him back away from the door, away from the huge windows, back behind the counter, back into store room. There were half a dozen civilians crouched there, in the spaces between the shelves, a few office workers, a girl in a green apron and matching cap, and a teenager who was hugging a Macbook with all the force his skinny arms could manage. There were two more in SHIELD gear, one man laid out on the floor, blood soaking through the towel that the other had pressed against his shoulder. They all stared at him. “Hi,” Harris said, when they finally stopped moving. “Delivery?”

“Kid,” a man in SHIELD blue said, taking the bag from him, “you are out of your mind, you know that, right? That was straight up insane.”

Harris collapsed back against the wall, his breath coming in sharp, hard pants. “Yeah, I- I got that,” he choked out. “That- Occurred to me around, around about the time I saw that the Starbucks was actually closed.” He sucked in a breath that hurt, and it came out as a cough. “I mean, that's when you know you're fucked. When the, the Starbucks puts up the 'Closed' sign in the middle-” 

His legs were shaking, or maybe the ground was, but he grabbed for the wall, trying to keep himself upright. The girl in the apron looked at him, her face wrinkling in concern. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

“I forgot,” Harris said, or maybe he just mouthed it, because he was seriously having trouble breathing in now.

“Forgot what?” the medic glanced up from his work, and his eyes went shark.

“I have asthma,” Harris said, and he started to laugh. He was still laughing as the ground rushed up to meet him, and just before he hit, everything went dark.

He was kind of glad.

*

The gentle, steady thrum of the heart monitor wasn't as comforting as it used to be.

Harris didn't bother to open his eyes. “Tell me,” he said, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He inhaled, and regretted it. His throat burned, and he tried to reach up to check for damage.

A hand closed on his wrist. “We won.” The voice was calm and quiet. Harris forced his eyes open, blinking hard against the glare of the hard white light. The face, the form above him was indistinct and hazy, but he knew who it was. Coulson leaned in, as if he knew Harris was having trouble focusing. He smiled, just a little. “It's over, SHIELD's got a lot of cleanup to do, and possibly some intergalactic peace making. Minor civilian casualties, limited property damage.” He paused, his smile stretching. “We're getting better at keeping these things contained, it would seem.”

“Okay.” Harris stared up at the stark white ceiling. “Actually. Actually was gonna say,” he managed, as Coulson poured a cup of water, “tell me I'm not in medical.”

“Ah.” Coulson held the cup out to him, the straw pointed at Harris in a way that seemed almost demanding. Harris gave in with as much grace as he could manage, which wasn't much. Still, he managed to get a good swallow or two before he started to cough. Coulson pulled the cup back. “Fine,” he said, as calm and precise as always, “I won't.”

“I was GOING to say that,” Harris said, collapsing back against the pillows. The eerie white stillness of the room pressed in on him. “But now-” He sucked in a breath, and another, and his throat hurt, and he was really aware of the needle in his arm, but he didn't cough this time. “Now I'm going to say, tell me I'm not in quarantine.”

Coulson sat back down, folding his hands in his lap. “You're not in quarantine,” he said. His shoulders rose and fell in a slight sort of shrug. “It's a very minimalistic hotel room.”

Harris glared in his general direction. “How do you do that with a straight face?”

“I have quite a bit of practice, actually.” Coulson's eyebrows arched. “How are you feeling?”

He thought about that. “Like I've been shot.” He stopped, his blood going cold in his veins so fast that for a second he was dizzy. “Did I-”

“You have not been shot,” Coulson said.

“You could sound happier about that,” Harris pointed out.

“I don't have as much experience with saying 'you have not been shot' as I do with 'you've been shot,' to be honest,” Coulson said, and Harris stared at him in horror. Coulson smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. “Again. You haven't been shot.”

“Stop sounding so surprised!” Harris said, while struggling to push himself upright. Coulson put a hand on his chest and held in down without any visible effort. Harris considered kicking him. Before he could try, there was a soft, sustained hum from the door, and then it opened.

“He is surprised,” Dr. Anna Garza said, striding in. She pointed a finger in Coulson's direction. “I said you could hide from in here from Director Fury and your responsibilities if you didn't upset Patient Zero.”

“It's really not my fault,” Coulson said, his voice vaguely apologetic. “He's very easily upset. And he's trying to get up.”

She nodded. “Yes, well, he's stupid.”

Harris glared up at her. “I'm right here. I can hear you.”

“Yes,” she said, glaring back. It was a pretty impressive glare. Harris decided to stop trying to sit up. “I do not care. Don't cross me.” She pointed a finger at him. Harris' eyes crossed as he tried to focus on it. “Your ass. That bed.” She threw her hands up, a manic grin on her face. “Best friends!”

“The medical terminology around here is just so difficult to understand,” Coulson said, flipping a page on Harris' chart. 

“I'll try to use smaller words, just for you, Philharmonic.” Dr. Garza took the chart from him. Coulson stared down at his empty hands for a moment, then heaved and audible sigh. Dr. Garza smiled down at Harris. “How're you feeling, Harris?”

“I might've been shot,” Harris said.

“I think I would've noticed that,” Dr. Garza said. “Most of the time I notice that.”

“Not comforted by 'most of the time,'” Harris pointed out. He looked at Coulson. “I want a different doctor.”

Dr. Garza made a note on his chart with a sweeping gesture. “And I want a pony! Guess we're both going to have to learn to deal with disappointment.”

Against his will, he started to smile. She smiled back. “Don't you have more important people to worry about?” Harris asked her.

“Yes. So I'm pissed that I'm here, worrying about you,” Dr. Garza said. “I plan on billing you for an obscene amount of money, just so you know.”

“I'm broke. I work here,” Harris pointed out. “I have half a bag of gummy bears in my pocket, though I think-”

“You HAD a half a bag of gummi bears in your pocket,” Coulson said. At some point, he'd gotten Harris' chart back. Harris wasn't quite sure how he'd accomplished that. “They were requisitioned.”

Harris stared at him. “You stole my candy while I was unconscious?”

“It's like the old saying,” Dr. Garza said. She took the chart back. “Like taking candy from an unconscious government agent.” 

“I don't remember that saying at all,” Harris said. “And I think I would've remembered that saying.”

“It's only in regional usage,” Coulson said.

“What am I doing in quarantine?” Harris asked.

“Well, you collapsed in the field, with an elevated temperature and signs of physical stress,” Dr. Garza said. “We couldn't take the chance that you might be infectious.”

Coulson took over. “It's mid-summer, and we're already looking at a potential health crisis with damaged electrical, water, and sewer systems.”

Harris nodded. “Okay.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I don't feel sick.”

“And I don't think you are,” Dr. Garza said. “We're just waiting on your bloodwork.” She tapped a finger against his chart. “But a little bed rest wouldn't hurt.”

“Can I have medical leave?” Harris asked Coulson.

“Ordinarially, I would say no, but Clint's due some that he won't take. Want to be his body double?”

“No. People want to kill him.” 

“I'd say you'd be safely in medical, but half of the ones that want to kill him are the medical staff, so...” Dr. Garza said as the door beeped. “Ah, here we go.”

The woman who stepped into the room was tall and slim, with dark brown skin and huge golden brown eyes. She studied Harris with her head tipped to the side, her gaze analytical. “Oh,” she said at last, holding a folder out to Dr. Garza. “You're the problem.”

“I'm the problem,” Harris agreed, because it seemed pointless to argue.

“Dios mio,” Dr. Garza grumbled, taking the paperwork from the newcomer. “Don't encourage her.”

“Don't ask me to do bloodwork again, it's tedious and below me.” The woman crossed her arms over her chest, still watching Harris with what seemed like far too much attention. Harris smiled. She didn't seem to notice.

“You got to call the CDC, you should be thanking me,” Dr. Garza said, flipping through the pages.

“I do like to call the CDC.” She turned on her heel. “Even if it's just to confirm what I already know. Don't ask me to do bloodwork again.”

“I'm totally going to ask you to bloodwork again,” Dr. Garza sing-songed. “Because you're the beeeeeeeeeeest and I can't truuuuuuuuuuust anyone else with the hard caaaaaaaaaaaases.”

The woman paused at the door, her hand resting on the release. “Fine,” she said after a moment. Her head turned slightly back towards Dr. Garza, and Harris was pretty sure he saw a hint of a smile curving her cheek. “But only because I am the best.” And then she was out the door and gone. Harris stared after her, curious against his will.

“What's the verdict?” Coulson asked, his voice quiet, and Harris' head snapped back around.

“Congratulations.” Dr. Garza looked up with a smile. “Blood tests are good. You're not having a relapse.”

“Thank fuck,” Harris said. “Can I leave the terrifying white room now?”

“Sorry, not until morning.” She folded his chart shut and hung it at the end of his bed. “It does mean, however, that you can have visitors.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Guess who would really like to visit?”

Harris' stomach turned over. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Coulson pushed himself to his feet. When he looked back at Harris, he was smiling. “They're very concerned.”

“They're very loud,” Dr. Garza said. She walked around the bed, muting monitors and disconnecting some of the more frightening looking equipment. “We're going to leave the IV drip in for the moment, because you could use the nutrition.” She stopped, right next to Coulson. “You have a right to medical privacy. We can tell them that we thought you might've been exposed to something alien, and we needed to clear you before you could have any contact with anyone else.”

“It's not the best cover story I've been involved with, but it's serviceable,” Coulson agreed.

Harris scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. This is getting, this is ridiculous.” He took a deep breath, and his chest ached with it. “Can you please just send Darcy in first? Let me... Talk to her first.”

Dr. Garza nodded. “You're sure.”

“I'm sure.” He was. He was tired of it by now. “Promise me I can leave tomorrow?”

“Unless your condition changes, yes. You'll be out of here tomorrow.” She slapped Coulson on the back. “Come on. We've got some big... Green things to deal with.”

He sighed. “Looking forward to it. I mean. More than I'm looking forward to dealing with Ms. Lewis.”

“Watch it,” Harris said, trying not to smile. He reached for the cup beside the bed. “That's my girlfriend you're talking about.”

“A fact that I'm still confused about,” Coulson said.

“Aren't you dating BARTON?” Dr. Garza asked, taking the cup from Harris and refilling it. “I do not think you get to talk about anyone else's dating history, Agent.”

Harris took the cup from her. “Live fast, date hard, be confused by your love life,” he said, sipping the water. It tasted good, and holding the cup was somehow steadying. “How do I look?”

“Like death warmed over,” Dr. Garza said. “So she might not kill you for scaring her.” She pushed the pitcher of water closer to the edge of the table next to his bed. “Brace yourself.”

“I'm perpetually amazed by how bad your bedside manner is,” Coulson said to her.

“I'm perpetually surprised that you're still surprised by anything.” With a smile and a wink, Dr. Garza set a hand on Coulson's shoulder and gave him a firm push towards the door. “We'll check up on you later.”

“Thanks,” Harris said, and he meant it. He wasn't sick. He had to keep reminding himself of that. He wasn't sick. He was not sick. And even if he was, this place was clean and dry, warm and safe. And he'd woken up with someone watching over him. Someone had been there, to make sure that if he was sick, at least he wasn't alone.

He wasn't going to die alone, forgotten and afraid.

The sound of the door opening was a shock to the system, and he jerked upright, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clapped a hand over his mouth, pressing down hard to keep himself from hyperventilating. The plastic cup, luckily already empty, rolled off the edge of the bed and to the floor. He had no idea when he'd dropped it.

But by the time Darcy slipped through the door, ducking around the medical staffer who'd opened it for her, he was under control. Smiling. Calm. Able to breathe.

“So, hey,” Darcy said, and her face was pale behind the shield of her glasses. “This is, this is nice, you've got yourself a very nice room here, this is...” Her voice got smaller and smaller with each word, trailing away to nothingness. She stared at Harris, blinking hard, and there were tears in her eyes, making her lashes spiky and dark. But she didn't let them fall, she never let them fall. 

But she looked smaller than he'd ever seen her, small and fragile and... Scared.

Harris smiled. “I have malaria,” he said, because this was stupid. This was so amazingly stupid. He took a deep breath. “I contracted malaria while I was... In captivity, and the medical care was pretty lousy, so I wasn't given the proper treatment for the strain that I have.” He sucked in a breath, trying not to think about that, about the terrifying, hellish couple of days as he'd clung to life between bouts of burning fever and debilitating chills. “I survived it, and I thought I was done, but the strain I have, the parasite goes dormant. It, I don't fully understand it, but it goes dormant in the liver, so-” He forced a smile, because he didn't like thinking about it. He didn't like acknowledging how afraid it made him. “There's a chance that I'll develop it again.”

Darcy blinked once. And again, her eyes going sharp. “When?”

He shrugged. “No way to know. It's opportunistic. So... Anytime.” He held up his hands. “Fun times!”

Darcy crossed the handful of steps to the bed. “But... Not now.” She sank into the chair that Coulson had abandoned.

“Not now,” Harris agreed. “They, uh, they keep an eye on me, because there's a slim chance that if I actually do get sick, a mosquito bite could transmit it to someone else. Not much of a chance, but...” He exhaled, all the fight going out of him. “I'm a risk, if I'm sick. There's a treatment for the strain of malaria that I have, but due to a quirk of genetics, I can't take it.”

She nodded. “Fuck, MacIntyre, you're a mess.”

“You have no idea,” Harris said. He smiled. “But this is, you know, minor.”

Her mouth dropped open. She gave him a look, disbelief written all over her face. “Minor.”

“For a life-threatening disease, sure. It's pretty minor.” Harris shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. It was harder than it should've been. “So, how do we feel about this?”

“Was this why you weighed like eighty pounds soaking wet when we met?” she asked.

“I was NOT that skinny,” Harris said.

“You were TOTALLY that skinny,” Darcy said. She reached out, pushing his hair away from his forehead. Her fingers were cool, and he felt his face flush, just from that small touch. She smiled, and Harris smiled back. “Asshole, why didn't you tell me?”

“I don't like to talk about-” He sucked in a breath, and he couldn't inhale, he couldn't get enough breath in his lungs, he couldn't breathe- Panic swept over him, and then Darcy was there, her lips warm and gentle on his forehead, on his cheek, on the delicate skin of his eyelid. His free hand fumbled out, and her hand caught his, their fingers tangling together as Harris held on for dear life.

“You don't have to,” she said, her voice quiet. “It's okay. It's okay.”

He let his body sink into the bed, let himself try to believe that. “I don't want to go back there,” he whispered. “Not even- Like this.”

She didn't ask what he meant. He wasn't sure if she understood, or just didn't want to push it, didn't want to make him talk about something that he clearly didn't want to talk about. “Okay,” she said, instead, and straightened up. “Move over.”

“No, that's a horrible idea,” Harris said, even as he shifted over to the far side of the bed, trying not to jostle the IV in his arm. “This is a horrible idea,” he repeated as Darcy took a seat on the side of the bed and carefully lay down next to him. “Horrible idea.”

“Fuck you, my ideas are awesome,” Darcy said. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her eyes were beautiful, big and bright and warm. She wiggled closer, putting her head on his shoulder. “You're an asshole.”

Harris rested his chin on top of her hair. “So's malaria, just so you know.”

“Fuck that shit,” Darcy agreed, so cheerfully that he burst out laughing. She wrapped an arm around his waist. Then she raised it, and punched him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Ow?” he said, because she seemed to be waiting for a reaction.

“You scared me, you asshole.” She stared at him, and then punched him again, her fist barely making contact. “Ass. Don't do that again.”

“What, have malaria or get stuck in the middle of a warzone?”

“Scare me,” she said. She shifted closer, and he turned his head, inhaling the light, familiar scent of her hair. 

“I'll do my best,” he said. “But it's probably going to happen again.”

“I know. Ass.”

Harris smiled, catching her hand in his before she could take another swing. “I'll make it up to you, Darce.”

“Damn right you will.”

*  
He didn't even look up when the knock came. “This better be good,” he said, instead, squinting at his computer screen. “Because I'm not in the mood for stupidity right now.”

The door opened. “It's important.”

Daniel Tamayo looked up as his XO and best friend walked through the door. “Guess it is.” He leaned back in his chair, sighing as his back protested the movement. “What've you got for me, Tag?”

“Some of the boys were datamining for information about the most recent attack on New York,” Tag said, lowering himself into Dan's visitor chair. He braced an iPad on his knee. “Seeing if they could dig anything up before the powers that be pulled it down again.”

Dan rubbed his forehead. “Trolling Youtube isn't exactly datamining.” He reached for his coffee cup. “And if they bring SHIELD's wrath down on this squad, I'm going to have them all drawn and quartered.”

“Don't think the Navy lets us do that anymore, Cap, but...” Tag held the iPad out. “They found something. Managed to save it before it was pulled, because Doc thought-” He paused, his face going flat and expressionless. “I think you should see it.”

Dan took the iPad from him, his attention still on Tag's stonefaced expression. Guessing he wasn't going to get any further information from that quarter, he tapped on the file.

It was fuzzy and off center, clearly shot with a cell phone from some half hidden location. But it was enough. It was enough to see the single form in a SHIELD jumpsuit attacking a man in a business suit with a bag. Dan watched, curious, as the man in the suit collapsed to the street and then-

His head snapped back, a swear catching between his teeth. “Did he just-”

“Yeah, he did, so it turns out that the military rumor bill is right this time.”

Dan stared at the green faced alien in the middle of the street. “Shape shifters. Well, that's not good.” He looked up, and found Tag watching him. His eyes narrowed. “What am I missing?”

Tag leaned back in his chair. “Look at the SHIELD grunt.”

Dan rewound the video to the beginning and watched it again, the full two minutes of it. And this time, when the alien went down, he kept his attention on the man who'd hit the damn thing. For an instant, just before the video cut out, the man turned, and the person filming caught his face full on for the first time, and Dan's stomach iced over.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“It's Harris,” Tag finished for him. Dan looked up, and Tag was watching him. “Isn't it? It's Captain MacIntyre's kid.” Dan stared at him, incapable of speech, and Tag nodded. “That's... What Doc thought.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “That is Harris MacIntyre.”

Dan couldn't say anything. Could barely breathe.

Tag exhaled. “He's alive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Harris' illness has always been coded into his existence in this verse. Although all forms of malaria are treatable with proper diagnosis, there are versions of the disease that do cause relapses if left untreated. Treatments are available for most people, but certain genetic deficiencies exempt some from using the most effective drug currently in use.
> 
> That being said, I have only a layman's knowledge of the disease, and there's only so much reading medcal pages on the web can offer you. Please forgive any errors in this aspect of the story and just let me fudge the details, okay? Much appreciated. 8)


End file.
